


Fully Functional

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Crack, Cybernetics, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarge and Donut are keen to show Simmons all the upgrades they made to him during his cyborg surgery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fully Functional

**Author's Note:**

> Title and a line taken from the song "The Sexy Data Tango" by Voltaire.

When Simmons comes round it’s with the kind of pounding headache and stomach-churning nausea he hasn’t experienced since that two day apple martini drinking binge he'd spent his leave on two years ago. He'd passed the weekend in the only bar on that whole shitty little planet, only to wake up on the last morning in an unfamiliar motel room, butt naked and in bed with a traffic cone and another, equally naked man. He and Grif had an agreement to never bring it up.

Which is why when he opens his eyes and blinks blearily up into the wide, concerned baby-blues that belong to one Private Franklin Delano Donut, his first reaction is to freak the fuck out.

“Holy fucking shit!” he screams, flailing and almost falling off the bed. “Donut! What are you doing here? Where are my clothes?” Protectively, he pulls the bed sheets up to his neck . “Please, tell me this isn’t what I think this is…”

“Oh, good!” Donut says brightly, blinking down at him, a look of relief lighting up his already sunny face, “You’re awake! You were beginning to get me worried, mister.”

“Worried?” Simmons asks weakly, still not sure why exactly Donut’s here but reassured by the fact that Donut, at least, is wearing clothes.  “Why?” he asks, a different kind of trepidation settling low in his stomach, “What happened last night?”

“What happened? You underwent full body surgery, silly!” Donut says, frowning at him, a faint crease of concern denting the normally smooth skin of his forehead. “Gosh, I hope Sarge didn’t fry your hard drives!”

“My _what?!”_ Simmons really, _really_ doesn’t want to know what Donut means by that.

“Don’t be stupid,” says a gruff voice, “he's completely fine.” Sarge emerges from behind a screen that’s been set up in the middle of the room, pulling latex gloves off his hands and chucking them into a trash receptacle marked ‘BIOHAZARD’ in big, red letters. Simmons frowns, even more confused as he recognises Red Base’s basement medical bay.

“Sir?” he asks anxiously, looking up at his sergeant and hoping for some kind of reassurance. Sarge is busying himself pulling on a clean pair of gloves and doesn’t meet Simmons’ eyes. Simmons swallows, noting for the first time how dry his throat is, “What happened to me, sir?”

“Don’t remember, huh?” Sarge says, nodding to himself. “Well, that’s not surprising. The anaesthetic was about a year past its expiry date, so we had to improvise.”

“You’ve been through quite an ordeal,” Donut says, patting Simmon’s on the hand. “Don’t worry though! The surgery was a total success! Sarge makes a great surgeon, and I make an amazing nurse!”

“Oh god,” Simmons says, involuntarily, trying not to picture the inevitable costume that sentence conjures. Then, “Wait, _surgery?_ What surgery? What happened to me?” His fingers tighten on the sheets, and he’s suddenly too terrified to pull them down and see what lies beneath.

Sarge scratches at his chin, and Simmons wants to point out that technically he should put on a new pair of gloves after doing that, but he suddenly feels too ill and like he has bigger concerns than potential transfer of germs. “You remember I was talking about getting another robot on the team?”

(“Yay, diversity,” Donut interjects cheerily. )

 “Someone to perform maintenance and what not?” Sarge continues, “But then we had all that security trouble with Lopez and Blue team, so we decided instead of getting someone new we didn’t know, we just had to make someone we already knew into a new robot!”

“I don't -" Simmons works through the sentence's convolutions. “Oh no," he says with feeling, as understanding dawns, "don’t tell me you actually went through with the making me into a cyborg plan! That was the worst plan ever!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sarge bristles, glaring down at Simmons. “Operation Mandroid is a thing of unrivalled tactical brilliance! Half-man, half-machine - all red! Besides, it was that or let Grif die, and while I was all for that, it was _you_ , as I recall, who begged me to save him.”

“Oh,” Simmons says quietly. “ _Oh_.”

"So romantic," Donut says, sighing dreamily.

Simmons remembers then; another stupid, pointless confrontation with the blues, a tank, and a horribly dented and scratched suit of yellow armour crumpled out in front of the base. He remembers they’d had to practically scrape Grif out of it, and the way the blood had looked garish against yellow paint.  He glances at the screen splitting the room again. “Is he alright?”

“Well," Sarge says dubiously, "it’s not like I’d ever describe Grif as being alright, but he pulled through if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Good,” Simmons says, a little too fervently. He clears his throat, avoiding Sarge and Donut’s knowing looks, “I mean. Good. Asshole better not die after I fucking sacrificed _body parts_ for him. What parts did you take anyway?” Simmons hesitates, wondering if he dares risk a peek under the blanket. “A kidney? Some skin grafts?”

Sarge and Donut exchange a look. “Well, yeah, basically,” Donut says nodding.

“Really?” Simmons blinks, relieved. “Oh, wow. For a moment there I was worried that  -“

“Aaannd pretty much all your other internal organs and all of the skin on the left side of your body,” Donut adds in a rush, “like your hand!”

Simmons glances down at his hand in sudden horror. “Fuck!”

 

The next fifteen minutes are spent alternately freaking the fuck out and crying hysterically, which Simmons feels is a pretty reasonable reaction to finding out he’s some kind of freaky man-toaster hybrid.

“Part toaster?” Donut asks, brow wrinkling in confusion, “You're not part _toaster_ , Simmons. That’s just ridiculous! The microwave had way more useful parts!”

“Somehow, I don’t think that helped,” Sarge says as the sound of Simmons crying increases. “Oh, cut that out!” he snaps, as he finally loses patience.

Sniffling, Simmons shuts up, wondering as he does if he’s now literally hardwired to respond to Sarge’s orders.

“That’s better,” Sarge says approvingly, “don’t want you getting all rusty.” Simmons makes another small noise of sadness. Sarge chuckles, then claps Simmons on the shoulder, “Only joking; the alloy we used shouldn’t corrode at all!”

“I think it’s a bit soon for jokes sir,” Simmons says sullenly, looking down at his cyborg hand. He clenches it into a fist. At least it works, he supposes, and he's not stuck speaking Norwegian or something equally useful.

“Ah, stop living in the past, Simmons,” Sarge says briskly, “live in the future like me and Nurse Donut here! The future has flying ships and laser guns and cyborgs!”

“The future sounds a lot like the present, sir,” Simmons says doubtfully, “we have all those things.”

“That’s the spirit, Simmons!” Sarge enthuses, “Live in the future! Move on. Suck it up and take a look at yourself.”

“Yeah, you big baby,” Donut says supportively.

“With all due respect to you sir,” Simmons say, “screw you guys.” But he draws back the sheet anyway.

“There,” Donut says, still obnoxiously cheery, “that wasn’t so bad, was it? Like ripping off a band aid!”

“…” Simmons stares down at himself. “I look like the terminator,” he says finally, “but like, after the pipe bomb.”

“Psh, you wish,” Donut says, rolling his eyes. “Sorry Simmons, but you’re no Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

The metal covers the entirety of his left side, from shoulder to knee. It feels strangely stiff, but not completely without sensation. He lays his human hand over the metal half of his chest wonderingly. The metal is oddly supple, warm and almost alive. Under his hand, he can feel an odd whirring, and it takes him a moment to realise its coming from the spot his heart used to be in. Shaken, he lifts his hand away.  

“Cool, huh?” Donut says, meeting Simmons’ eyes.

“That’s one word for it,” Simmon says, taking a deep, calming breath.

“Aw you haven’t even seen the best part yet,” Donut says cheerily, “there’s a surprise in your pants.”

“I don’t even want to know what that means,” Simmons says firmly. His eyes slide unwillingly back to his boxers despite himself. Simmons prides himself on being pretty smart; it’s not like he hadn’t realised when he’d seen the extent of Sarge’s handiwork that there was a good chance that _some_ changes might had been made down there.  He hooks his fingers in the elastic of his boxers, then flushes. “Can I get some privacy, please?”

Sarge snorts not unkindly, “Little late for that son. I built the damn thing myself.”

“Yeah,” Donut says, rolling his eyes. “Gosh, Simmons. It’s not like you’ve got anything we haven’t seen before.”

Reluctantly, Simmons accepts they’re probably not going to leave him alone and in one quick movement tugs his boxers down, steeling himself as he gets his first look. “Well, that’s. Different.” It might not be anything new to Donut, but it’s certainly something Simmons hasn't seen before.  

“Figured you could use the upgrade,” Sarge rumbles, looking down at it with an expression of fondness Simmons had never expected to see directed at his genitals. "No need to thank me." Simmons diplomatically doesn't respond to that.

“Do you like it?” Donut is practically bouncing with glee. “I helped pick!”

“Does it even work?” Simmon asks.

“Oh yeah!” Donut nods vigorously. “You’re fully functional and anatomically correct! Also, ribbed. For her or his pleasure.” Donut winks and Simmons gives a horrified shudder.

“Ugh,” Simmons pulls his boxers back up, “I think I need a shower. Or a bath. Or maybe just a lot of bleach.”  He sits up and tentatively swings his legs over the side, hoping they’ll take his weight.

“Wait, before you go,” Sarge says seriously, “do you want us to run you through the tutorial?”

“What?” Simmons really isn’t sure he wants to know what either of them are asking him.

“You want us to show you how to use that thing?” Sarge asks, nodding in the direction of Simmons' crotch, "I added a few extra features."

“Honestly, Simmons,” Donut adds earnestly, “there’s no shame in asking for a helping hand from a fellow Red!”

“I think I can manage,” Simmons says, hurriedly getting to his feet, feeling a sudden strong desire to leave the conversation.

“I can help you get to grips with yourself!” Donut says, taking a step towards him.

“No thanks, Donut!” Simmons calls back, retreating as fast as he can. “I can handle it myself!” He groans as he realises what he just said, and leaves before Donut can say anything else.  He’s _so_ glad Grif wasn’t conscious to hear any of that.


End file.
